Lassiter Draws The Line
by Loafer
Summary: COMPLETE. Slightly AU look at what might happen if Lassiter got fed up with how Shawn treats him. Shules exists, Marlowe doesn't, and it turned into Lassiet after all. See? The stories think they're in charge.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: you know the drill. I don't own _**psych**_ and the only profits I make are intangibles like knowing someone out there's reading this.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: This is another sort of AU story like my _Lassiter: ChChChanges_, where people act like people might act if they weren't trapped on TV doing what TV people do. Or, if you want more details, Lassiter gets tired of the way Shawn treats him, and stuff happens. Shules exists, Marlowe doesn't, and I don't want to say this is Lassiet yet but it miiiight head that way. Consider it strong friendship for now.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Carlton Lassiter bent over the body, using his pen to pry the knife out of the man's hand. Juliet was ready with the evidence bag, but both of them jumped when Shawn Spencer proclaimed, "I see I'm just in time!" at perhaps the greatest volume of his already lived-out-loud life.

Carlton swore, dropping his pen, and Shawn stood grinning over him, Gus at his elbow.

"Shawn," Juliet snapped, "use your inside voice."

"But Jules, we're in a park." He gestured to the greenery, the benches, and the curious onlookers.

"Yes, at a _crime_ scene. You need to be discreet." She sealed the bag, nodded at Gus, and handed the bag to Dobson.

"I'm always discreet. Lassie, why do you even bother starting without me?"

Rising, Carlton merely looked at him intimidatingly.

Didn't work. Shawn barreled on, loudly, "I mean, really. It's not like you can do this on your own."

"Shawn," Gus warned.

Juliet said, "Shawn, we didn't call you. In fact we just got here ourselves. We don't know if we need you yet so—"

"Of course you're going to need me, Jules." His tone was only _slightly_ condescending. "The minute Lassie-face gets the call, it's the same as a call to me."

"Spencer," Carlton said coldly, stepping up close to Shawn, "you're not hired until your father says you're hired, and I don't see him around here."

Shawn smiled innocently and got out his cell. "Fortunately, I have him on speed-dial."

Gus snatched it away. "Stop stealing my work phone!" He stomped off a few feet.

Carlton turned his back on Shawn—Juliet was proud (and relieved)—and started toward the other victim.

"Lassie!" Shawn yelled. "No need; he's already dead!" Grinning at Juliet, he added loudly, "He probably didn't know."

Two seconds later, Carlton was looming over Shawn, who had the sense to look apprehensive. "Spencer. _Shut it_."

"What? I'm just trying to help."

Juliet looked at Carlton's icy blue eyes and had a feeling he was about to lose it. Stepping between them briskly, she grabbed Shawn and yanked him away from the danger zone. He protested all the way over to where Gus stood, whereupon she took Gus' arm as well and pulled them both to the perimeter of the crime scene and handed them over to McNab. "Buzz, keep them here until I hear personally from Henry Spencer that they've been hired by Chief Vick."

Leaving Shawn gaping, and Buzz smiling nervously, she returned to Carlton.

He glanced up from the second body and muttered, "Thanks. I owe you."

"That wasn't a favor. That was a necessity." She kept her tone light, and he looked at her more directly, much of the ice gone from the blue.

"Thanks anyway," he said, just the slightest of smiles at the corner of his mouth.

This peace was short-lived.

Shawn bellowed across the crime scene, "Ladies and gentleman of the gawking crowd, may I have your attention! I would like to direct your curious gazes to the giant-eared man who has single-handedly _not_ solved more cases than anyone else here, Detective Carlton—" The last was muffled when Gus slapped his hand over Shawn's mouth and even McNab shushed him, before both men dragged Shawn in the direction of the unmistakable Blueberry.

But Carlton was on the move, too, striding purposefully past Juliet after the trio, and she hurried after him, hoping she could keep up with her long-legged and potentially homicidal partner.

He caught Shawn by the arm and pushed him against the car, and the other men backed off. "Spencer, is there any doubt in your mind whether I can kick your ass?"

Shawn retorted, "From this angle, yeah."

"_Spencer_."

"Carlton!" she said urgently, afraid by his tone alone that he was going to prove Shawn wrong.

"Lassie," Shawn drawled.

"Answer my question, Spencer."

He stared at Shawn so long, and so murderously, that Shawn did begin to look unsettled.

"That's what I thought," Carlton continued. "Now you get this straight. I've been a cop for going on twenty years and—"

"And it's time to retire?" Shawn interrupted.

Carlton moved closer. Not touching him. Not one finger on him. Juliet's heart was thumping in her chest but she couldn't move to stop whatever was going to happen.

"I'm just saying, Lassie-face, that we both know you need me here, and the sooner you admit it, the sooner we solve the case."

"You don't even know what the case _is_," Carlton near-hissed. "How many SBPD cases have you solved in the past six years?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Ninety? A hundred? Gus?"

Gus mumbled something about that sounding right to him.

"So what is that, less than twenty cases a year? Great. And how many have O'Hara and I solved?"

"Well, she's solved plenty, but you—"

"Shawn, what is wrong with you?" Juliet was furious with him now. Why wouldn't he just shut the hell up?

"O'Hara and I solve _hundreds_ of cases… every _year_. Every year, Spencer. Without your help."

"But you have Jules. Without Jules, you couldn't—"

That was it for Juliet; she pushed her way between them again and said in her own icy tone, "Everything I know about being a good detective, I learned from my partner. You insult him, you insult me. Go. Home. _Now_."

Gus said uneasily, "Shawn. Get in the car."

Shawn was staring between Carlton and Juliet. "Jules, I'm just playing around. You know I—"

She glared, and could almost feel Carlton's glare behind her.

"Shawn, get in the car now, or I'm leaving without you."

Juliet glanced meaningfully at Buzz, who obediently opened the car door and herded Shawn inside, and then she tugged at Carlton's sleeve and turned him back to the crime scene. The onlookers probably hadn't heard much but they'd seen plenty, and she was embarrassed and horrified that Shawn had done this. Again.

Carlton didn't say anything, but his jaw was clenching and his expression the stoniest she'd ever seen. "That's the last time, O'Hara."

"It better be," she said with matching grimness.

He stopped and looked at her steadily. "Thanks for intervening again, but I don't think you get my meaning. That was _the last time_ he pulls that crap at a crime scene with me."

Again, he turned away, and got back to work with his usual precision and attention to detail.

Juliet couldn't help but feel this wasn't over.

**. . . .**

**. . . **

Lassiter sat heavily in his chair, tired not from the crime scene but from the anger. He was so very _very_ tired of being angry about Spencer's antics (long past being angered by the antics themselves; _if you've seen one narcissist, you've seen them all_).

He didn't hate Spencer, contrary to popular belief; he could see the idiot-man was intelligent and certainly he made case-solving observations quickly. While Lassiter's preference was certainly that police matters be handled by actual trained, competent, able-to-use-silverware-effectively _police_ staff, he wasn't so arrogant as to assume consultants had no value, and God knows Spencer had certainly come to his aid during the Drimmer business.

But these constant public attacks in the name of 'humor'—those had to stop. He meant what he'd told O'Hara: that was the last time.

He got up to refill his coffee mug, and moments later, Spencer breezed past on his way to corral his father.

"Dad!" he said peremptorily. "I want in on Lassie's case."

Henry didn't look up from his computer. "Aren't you always on Lassiter's case?"

"Ha ha. Oh ha. Ha and a double ha." He paused. "Actually, that _was_ pretty funny. Props to you. But you know what I mean. The case he and Jules just got."

"I don't even know what that is, Shawn. Mostly like _you_ don't even know what it is."

"Doesn't matter. I want in."

Henry leaned back in his chair, surveying his son. Lassiter kept just behind the column, stirring coffee slowly enough to seem to be intent on that and nothing else. Eavesdropping wasn't eavesdropping when the conversation was in public and at normal volume. Hell, eavesdropping was one of the things which made this country great.

"How am I supposed to make a case for you being on the case if you don't even know what the case is?" In a sharper tone, he demanded, "Is this about a bill you can't pay?"

"I can pay my bills, Dad."

Thanks to Gus, Lassiter thought.

"Thanks to Gus," Henry retorted. "So it's about something you want to buy."

"Dad, just get me on the case!"

"I need more information," Henry declared, and walked away from his desk; Spencer followed and Lassiter returned to his seat.

Juliet appeared to drop a folder on his desk, and gave him a careful once-over. "You okay?"

Lassiter looked at her over the top of his mug. "Stop worrying. I'm not going postal."

The expression in her eyes was both kind and fierce. "I'm so sorry about earlier."

"It's not your fault. In fact, O'Hara, you went above and beyond to control the situation. Now what's new on our victims?" He had to turn the subject back to work proper or he might say something nice to her, and that wouldn't do.

"Lassie-saurus!" Spencer declared, coming up behind Juliet, startling her and making Lassiter's jaw clench again. "My dad says I'm in. Now, for my first trick, I'm going to pull a rabbit out of your giant ears, and then I'm going to take you shopping for new cologne, and then I'll—"

"Shawn!" Juliet interrupted angrily. "Stop it right now."

He beamed at her. "I told you, Jules, I'm just playing. Like last week when you said you wouldn't—"

"_Shawn_!"

Lassiter was sort of intrigued. On the one hand, her level of anger at Spencer was fascinating because he hadn't seen anything like this since Spencer had forced her father back into her life; on the other hand, this anger seemed to be in _Lassiter's_ defense, which made no sense. On a mutant _third_ hand, he found his own annoyance with Spencer intensified by the fact that he was pissing Juliet off. He stood up abruptly, taking the case folder. "Spencer, if you'll excuse us, and frankly, even if you won't, my partner and I need to go speak with the Chief." And even though he never did this, ever, he grasped Juliet by the elbow and led (forced) her in the direction of Vick's office.

Juliet didn't protest, and his glance at her showed she was fuming, but obviously not at him. Kinda nice, he reflected, to not be the only one torked off at Spencer for a change.

Spencer of course followed, whistling some slap-happy tune.

Karen Vick was at her desk, making notations in a file, and when they came in, she gestured to them to sit. "Give me the rundown. Mr. Spencer, I take it your father okayed your involvement?"

"So far as you know," he said nonchalantly.

Lassiter sat in one chair, and Juliet the other, as the unamused Vick said with deliberate precision, "Mr. Spencer. If I call Henry in here, is he going to say he thinks you should be on the case?"

"Of course he will!" He perched on the table in the corner until her glare encouraged him to use a chair properly.

Henry walked by the open door with Guster, and Vick called them in. "Henry—"

Shawn interrupted. "Okay, okay, he didn't _exactly_ say I could be on it, but he didn't say I couldn't. He just said he needed more information."

"Well, so do I," Vick said, and turned to Lassiter. "Sum it up, please? I have a meeting in ten minutes."

He concentrated on the work, because that at least was… dependable. "Two white males, both between the ages of 45 and 60, no ID, not _obviously_ homeless, at the south edge of the park. Victim 1 was knifed; Victim 2 held the knife and had been shot in the head. No gun found at the scene."

"You know," Spencer interrupted, "there's really no such thing as _obviously_ homeless anymore."

"Shut up, Shawn," Juliet said, clearly still annoyed.

"No, really. They wear better clothes and sometimes they'll even have cell phones and—"

Now Vick. "Mr. Spencer, _please_. Lassiter, continue."

"We're waiting for prints and DNA, and the autopsy to retrieve the bullet; we're canvassing the area and running their photos through the system. Until we get an ID or a witness, we're in limbo."

"How loooow can you goooo?" Spencer slid out of his chair, doing a limbo dance sans pole, then straightened up. "Chief, while Lassie here was wasting time adjusting his military garters, I was talking to the spirits. They tell me that the knifed victim wasn't knifed by the man holding the knife."

She sighed, but gave him her attention. "Do they now?"

"Yes. The guy with the knife was right-handed but the knife was in his left hand. Have I used the word 'knife' too many times in the last thirty seconds?"

"You're suggesting there was a third person there who killed them both?" Henry inquired.

With relative calm, Lassiter said, "Again, we're canvassing, running photos and waiting for test results. At this point I don't see the need for—"

"How can you not see with eyes that freakishly huge? Come on, Lassie, don't slow me down again. Don't get in the way of solving the case like you always do when I'm here to save the day!"

Lassiter looked at him, feeling the anger building.

Vick cut off whatever he might have said. "Fine, go talk to the spirits while we wait for the results. Lassiter, O'Hara, you can—"

Spencer was crowing. Actually crowing. Henry said his name sharply, and Gus nudged Spencer hard in the arm, eliciting a gasp of pain.

Juliet said, and later Lassiter marveled at this, "Chief, I think maybe Shawn should sit this one out until we know we actually need him."

Vick raised her eyebrows. "I hear you, but really, just get to work, O'Hara, and maybe you'll have it solved before he's finished pirouetting."

"That was not a pirouette," Spencer protested. Gus grabbed his arm and led him out, and Henry, shrugging, followed.

Juliet wasn't happy.

And Lassiter had had _enough_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet was trying to figure out what to say to change Vick's mind when Carlton got up and closed the door to her office. Vick's eyebrows went up again.

"Yes?"

"One question," he said evenly, and Juliet knew this wasn't going to be good.

"A question which requires the door to be closed?" She leaned back in her chair, arms folded, the look unmistakably saying _don't waste my time because I may well shoot you_.

"It's a long one," he elucidated coolly. "Do you assign Spencer to our cases because I'm the Head Detective and O'Hara is my partner and we therefore tend to get the complex, high-profile cases where outside help might be required, or do you assign him to us because you don't think I'm competent to do the job without him?"

She was taken aback. "_What_?"

"Because if it's the former, Chief, then honestly, I don't want to be the Head Detective anymore. You can promote O'Hara, give her a new partner Spencer likes better, and put me with the other rank-and-file detectives."

"What?" she exclaimed again. "What the hell—"

"Carlton!" Juliet protested, shocked beyond measure.

"But if it's the latter," he continued, icy now, "and you _do_ think I'm not competent to do my job without his help, then my badge and letter of resignation will be on your desk in the morning."

"Lassiter!" Vick snapped. "What the hell are you talking about? Spencer is an authorized consultant and it's no insult to _anyone_ when we call him in!"

"No," he agreed. "It's not. What's an insult is the way he acts at crime scenes. The way he acts in meetings like this one, uninvited or not."

She sighed, trying to remain calm. "He's a showman, Carlton, and you've had six years to get used to that. You know he doesn't mean half of what he says."

"This isn't about the personal insults. You think I'm not capable of handling myself? You think I haven't been hearing about my big ears and my crooked nose and how I'm uptight since I was a kid? You think I'm not capable of beating the _crap_ out of him and never leaving a single mark?" His blue eyes were ablaze. "That's not the point. The point is how he acts in public, in front of witnesses, victims, other cops, and the media. The point is how he publicly ridicules my abilities as a _cop_. It gets in the way of doing the job, Karen, because now I'm not just trying to work a case but also trying to get past everyone's reactions to the stupid-ass crap he spews to discredit me."

She stared him, as did Juliet, and the clock ticked far too loudly in the silence.

"Like just now, three minutes ago. How many times did he manage to work into his monologue that I'm a bad cop? And that's okay with everyone. I'm not saying you should defend me—I don't need anyone to defend me, because my record should speak for itself. But nobody even thinks twice about what he says anymore, and though that might be _borderline_ tolerable here in the station, it's totally unacceptable out in the field where his constant public attacks interfere with getting the damn work done."

Juliet started to speak—to agree, actually—but Carlton held up a hand to stop her.

"I know it's impossible to change him, and even if he promised to keep his piehole shut, he wouldn't, and we all know it. Again, that's not the point." With a sigh, a terribly final sort of sigh, he said flatly, "But I'm done being publicly undermined. I'm _done_. If he can't work a case without insulting me—and by extension the entire Santa Barbara Police Department because you're stupid enough to have an incompetent dolt like me on staff—then he shouldn't work with me at all. Either demote me so I can get some real work done, or accept my resignation." He went to the door while Juliet was scrambling to get up, her legs having suddenly quit working. He paused to add, "I know this is an ultimatum and I apologize for springing it on you like this. But enough's enough, Karen." He strode out.

Juliet made it to her feet and was halfway to the door—never mind Vick's reaction to all this—when a thought hit her, and she turned back to tell her commanding officer, "Don't you even think about giving me a new partner. It's Carlton or nobody, Chief, and that's _my_ ultimatum."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[Merry Christmas, Lawson227. Of course now you'll have to wait until next week for a second chapter…]_


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter, back at his desk, logged off his computer and snatched up his jacket in one fairly fluid motion, totally focused on getting the hell out as fast as he could.

Henry looked up from his own computer and asked, "As the consultants' liaison, is there something I need to know about your closed door session with Vick just now?"

"Nope." He turned to leave, and saw Spencer and Juliet intersecting; Juliet was headed straight at him and Spencer's aim was to cut her off. Lassiter didn't have time for Spencer-games, not now, but the two of them converged in the small space directly in front of him.

He glanced at Juliet, noting her anxiety, noting that he was touched, noting that he couldn't deal with it at the present time.

Spencer said, "So! Who wants to go visit Woody?"

"Carlton," Juliet started, ignoring Spencer.

"Jules! Don't interrupt." He put a hand on her shoulder and she jerked back; his eyes widened and just for a moment, he stopped talking.

"Excuse me," Lassiter said flatly, and started to push between them. Juliet grasped his arm, and Spencer jumped in front of him. He allowed the idea of Juliet's concern to wash over him for a moment, just enough to stop his urge to punch Spencer. "Get out of my way."

"Shawn, leave." Juliet let go of Lassiter and glared at Shawn.

"What's up with Mr. Roboto? Do you think he could actually shoot real lasers out of those eyes?" Spencer peered at him with mock interest. "Come on, Woody said he had the preliminary ready, so we gotta jet."

"Spencer," Lassiter ground out, "if you don't get the hell out of my way, I will shoot you where you stand."

Spencer blinked. Then he grinned. "Let me lie down first. Be more comfortable."

"Shawn!" Juliet nearly yelled, rounding on him. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Leave it, O'Hara. I'm out for the rest of the day." He pushed through at last, aware that it wasn't an accident that his shove to Spencer's shoulder was harder than it needed to be.

He could hear Juliet snapping and Spencer protesting and when he slowed to look over his shoulder, he saw Juliet again aiming for him and Spencer in pursuit—but Spencer was jerked back short by his father, who said loud enough for all to hear, "Think again, boy. The lady has a gun." Huh. Unexpected ally, though he was pretty sure Henry had done it for Juliet, not him.

Juliet caught up when he was nearly to his car, and it was her "Dammit, Carlton, I _will_ shoot!" which finally got through. He spun at the door to the sedan, and faced her, meeting her blue-gray gaze impassively.

"What was all that back there? In Vick's office? Threatening to quit?"

"It wasn't a threat, O'Hara. I gave her a choice."

Juliet caught her breath, and stalked up to him. "And did you honestly just try to fob me off on someone else?"

She was angry. No, upset. No, both.

Lassiter sighed. "Of course not."

"Well, it sounded like it. It sounded like you wanted a new partner, so you could—"

"O'Hara, dammit, _no_. I don't want a new partner. Why the _hell_ would I want a new partner?" He forced himself to loosen his impossibly tight grip on his keys. "Just because I draw a line in the sand doesn't mean you have to get dragged in. I won't bring you down if I can avoid it."

She was only about a foot away now, and somehow he felt shorter under the spotlight of her glare. "Carlton, any line you draw goes for both of us. We're partners. We deal with Shawn together."

He stiffened. "No. We don't." Spencer was her boyfriend, and no matter how doltish, he loved her; anyone could see that, and it changed everything about how they dealt with him.

Juliet let out a breath. "No. I guess we don't. But we should. You should have asked me—no. You shouldn't have _had_ to ask me. I can't believe this." She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing for you to be sorry for. Look, tell Vick I'm taking the day, all right?" He started to unlock the door.

"Carlton, wait. Wait. Just—_wait_!"

Lassiter stopped and stilled himself.

"Is this… how long have you been thinking about this? About stepping down?"

He shrugged. "Awhile. I just don't see how else to solve the problem, O'Hara."

Her mouth fell open. "Seriously? What if Vick doesn't agree?"

"Then I quit," he said evenly. "And I go somewhere else and find a whole new thorn in my side."

"Carlton! My God, this is crazy. This is—how could it get this far without you _telling_ me?"

"It wasn't you he was going after, O'Hara. It wasn't you being—"

"That's not true! Like you just told Vick—every time he insults you he's basically insulting the whole department. So it might as well have been me, and I could have done something to stop things from escalating, and—and you can't be someone else's partner, Carlton. You're _my_ partner."

Dammit, he was touched again by the earnest tone of her voice.

She went on fervently, "You know he doesn't mean the things he said. Your record speaks for itself, and—"

"Yes, exactly! My record _does_ speak for itself, O'Hara, but it can't speak up at a_ crime scene_. And I don't care whether he means what he says or not. He could have a shrine to me in his apartment for all I care. It doesn't matter. What matters is the public perception when I'm trying to do my job." He raked his hand through his hair. "Hell, maybe you should jump at the chance for a new partner. It hasn't done you any good to be saddled with Detective Dipstick, now has it?"

"It's done me a _world_ of good," she shot back angrily. "You are the best—" She turned her head suddenly and he was shocked to consider she might have tears in those beautiful eyes. "If anything, I'm bringing _you_ down."

"The hell? _How_?"

"It's occurred to me, you know. I'm dating the department psychic. His father hires the consultants. All it's going to take is one reporter to figure that out and we'll never hear the end of it. Favoritism. Nepotism. Some other ism which can make the department look bad, and in that case, drag _you_ down, because you choose to be partners with _me_!"

"Well, that's crap," Lassiter retorted. "You could never be anything other than an asset to anyone you partnered with, O'Hara."

Briefly, she smiled, and he felt a tiny bit of hope for this conversation to end well. She seemed to compose herself, and asked quietly, "Will you come back inside?"

"Not today." He unlocked the car door. "I'm not good for anything today, not now, and as long as Spencer's lurking, you can consider me gone. Get Vick to assign that case to another team if you don't want to work it by yourself with Spencer. But I won't be in on it. You understand?"

Juliet's smile was gone in an instant, and she put both hands up to her flushed face for a moment. "This cannot be happening. I am going to kill him. I am. You watch." She stepped as close as she could and glared at him. "You are not getting a new partner, and you are not quitting. You are coming to work tomorrow and Shawn is not going to be here and we are going to do our jobs and that's that, Carlton Lassiter; do you hear me?"

He raised one eyebrow. "You're six inches away, so yeah."

"Whatever Vick decides, she decides for both of us. I already told her I was sticking to you." She backed off a little. "If I'd made you understand that a long time ago, maybe this day could have been avoided."

Lassiter wasn't so sure about that. With Spencer, nothing was ever simple. "Stop blaming yourself, O'Hara. This is just me stepping out of the box, that's all."

"Then we need a bigger box, Carlton." She glared at him again. "I expect you here first thing in the morning. Bring me a coffee." She turned on her heel and walked off rapidly.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The further Juliet got from her partner, the more her anger turned to fear. She glanced over her shoulder to watch him driving away, and blinked back a sudden tear before continuing toward the station.

Shawn bounded down the steps. "Jules! What the hell was going on back there?"

"Yeah, Shawn, what the hell _was_ going on back there?" Hmm, her anger had made a rapid recovery. "How can a self-proclaimed psychic miss every single cue there is—including verbal cues—to shut up and back off?"

"Cues?" he repeated, puzzled. "You mean like body language, signals, all that? I noticed a few here and there but nothing seemed very serious."

"Then what in God's name is your definition of _serious_? How many times today have you been threatened with bodily harm, Shawn?" She gave up on doing the math herself; she was too buzzed with fury.

He grinned. "Well, a few, but it's been a slow day overall. Death threats should pick up by tomorrow."

She stared at him in disbelief.

Shawn finally sighed. "Yeah, Jules, I get it. I get that you're pissed and Gus is pissed and just now Vick gave me a hell of a glare, and Lassie, well, he's always pissed, but—"

"Ter!" she ground out. "LassiTER. How hard is it, Shawn? Really? You can't manage a simple name like Lassiter? Well, of course not. You can't even manage JuliET. Maybe it's too much for me to call you Shawn. Maybe I should just stop at _Sha_. Would that be easier for you? Hmmm?"

Shawn frowned as if she were the one losing her mind, and after a moment, she had to admit he was right. "Juliet," he said deliberately. "I guess we need to talk. I don't know exactly what I've done today that I don't do every day to incur what seems to be an _unusual_ amount of wrath, but I'm willing to take a chance and listen. Preferably over lunch, because there's a taco and empanada special down at Paco's."

She thought, _yeah, you'll _listen_. You'll humor me, if you even pay attention while you eat, then you'll try to joke me out of it, and nothing will change, and I'm an idiot_.

"I need a break," she said abruptly.

He tilted his head. "Uh… okay, sure. We can get a cabin in the woods for the weekend, or maybe drive up the coast. Gus will have to cry himself to sleep while I'm gone, but—"

"No, Shawn." She hesitated, but only for a second. "I need a break from _you_."

He was still. The whole parking lot seemed to be still. No one entered or left the building. Still. "What… what do you mean? Are you… are you breaking up with me?"

Her head was aching. "I… I don't know. I'm not saying that. I don't know what I'm doing. I just know I need a break. From us. From you. From… all this… all this crap."

"Crap," he repeated. "Our relationship is crap?"

"I didn't say that," she said hotly. "I would never say that. But… look. I thought…. when you forced my father back into my life? When you ignored everything I said about not wanting him around? I mean, I know your ultimate intention was good, Shawn. I get that, and I know I have a chance now to make repairs to my relationship with him, and that's _all_ good, I guess, but the thing is, I thought it was the worst you could do. The worst way to totally stomp on everything I said was important to me—" She paused, because she could see he was wounded, and it twisted at her heart to see that in his eyes. Taking a breath, she went on more slowly. "But this. This is worse than that. My partnership with Carlton is the longest and most stable relationship of my adult life, and it means the _world_ to me. Because of you, because of how you treat him in public, he's thinking about stepping down as head detective. Maybe even about quitting. And if I lose him, Shawn…" She had to stop a moment, to brush another damnable tear from her cheek, to ignore the shocked look on his face. "If I lose my partner because you couldn't just give him basic common courtesy and respect… I'm not sure I can come back from that. I don't think I could ever look at you the same way again."

Shawn was stunned. "Jules, I don't—what the hell is going on? What happened? What did I do to make him even think about stepping down?"

For the briefest of moments, Juliet felt the urge to laugh. "You were you, Shawn. You were you." She moved around him, and went up two steps. "Please. Stay away from the station for a few days. Don't call me, and don't… just stay away for a bit. Please." She turned her back and headed in, and her first stop was the ladies' room, where she cried for ten minutes straight.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Clint Eastwood growled to the punk who was about to make his day, and Lassiter lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, drink in hand, not hearing him.

Juliet was right: it was crazy.

He _had_ been thinking about this for a long time, but until the words escaped his mouth this morning he'd had no idea he would ever say them out loud.

Step down? From the position he'd earned so young and cherished all these years?

For all the good that did him. It didn't matter how many cases he'd solved; now everyone only remembered the ones _Spencer_ solved.

He drank, and marveled at the other words which had flown out of him today: that he'd resign.

Crazy, just like the far-too-lovely Ms. O'Hara had declared.

And yet…

And yet he had no regrets. Being Head Detective and more or less aiming at the Chief's position had become less something he wanted and more something he felt was _expected_ of him in the past half decade. The cases he enjoyed the most—got the most satisfaction from solving—were the ones he and Juliet worked alone. The Spencer cases were big and splashy and attracted public attention, but he always ended up stressed beyond belief and he _hated_ that he found himself seeking out the media, seeking out a chance to say "_I _did this" just to have some satisfaction that it wasn't Spencer who solved it… this time.

Just being a _detective_ was more appealing these days.

For Juliet's sake, he hoped she would take whatever partner Vick gave her. It would be better for her career than to stick with the guy who stepped down, because no matter what was said, there would be speculation as to why he was doing it, such as whether he was being demoted against his will, and Juliet along with him. He didn't want to do that to her.

He would miss her like crazy; he'd never have another partner like her. He wasn't even sure who in the station would _agree_ to partner with him now. But Juliet would be okay. Career-wise, she'd be better off. And personally… well… he imagined it wouldn't be too hard for her sunny self to break ties with him.

Of course, Vick might just accept his resignation. And why shouldn't she? What was there to salvage?

He knew he'd had too much to drink then… so he had another, and fell asleep on the sofa to the sound of Eastwood's gunfire.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet felt cold, waiting for Carlton to come to work. It was 70 degrees out and sunny and she was cold, because she was terrified.

No sleep last night, thinking about Shawn, thinking about Carlton, thinking about her career and her partnership and what kinds of things mattered the most in the dead of night when you're cold and you can't sleep and your world might be changing.

He was always at the station before her but this morning she was waiting for him, sitting at the chair next to his desk, so that when he came down the main hall, he saw her before he could veer off to her desk to drop off the insulated cup he held.

Seeing her now, he slowed, and she studied his blue gaze, trying to find something in it to give her hope.

"Coffee," he said, handing her the tall cup. "As demanded."

"Thank you." She sipped while he took off his jacket and sat down to turn on his computer. He looked tired… possibly a touch hung over. "You okay?"

His turn to study her. "Yeah. You?"

"I'm ready to work," she said simply.

"That's why I'm here." He hesitated, and then turned brisk. "What's the status on the park case?"

"I told Henry I wanted Shawn off of it, so it's all ours again."

His brows went up. "He agreed?"

"I was cleaning my gun at the time." This earned an unmistakable smirk. She felt better. "Woody's autopsy results are in that folder."

Carlton flipped through, getting the highlights. "No GSR on either victim. Looks like the third shooter theory holds water."

"Detectives," Chief Vick interrupted as she came near. "My office, please."

Juliet and Carlton looked at each other, and her terror rose up again. She honestly had no idea what Karen Vick was going to do. She had stayed clear of her yesterday while recovering from her little breakdown, and when she was ready to go make her case for non-separation, Vick was tied up in meetings.

Vick gestured them in and closed the door herself, crossing slowly to her desk and sitting down. She considered them both before speaking. "I'll be brief. I haven't made a decision about any of this yet. It was a lot to take in, and it's not at all a straightforward matter."

Carlton nodded, and Juliet read his body language as accepting.

"However, make no mistake—I _am_ taking it seriously, and Carlton, I'd like to offer my apology for letting the situation get to this point. What you said yesterday was true: Shawn's behavior has had a negative effect upon the entire department, not just you, on many occasions, and we have all been far too tolerant of his specific… behaviors… toward you." She looked uncomfortable, and Juliet thought this spoke well of her.

"Thank you, Chief," he said quietly.

Vick glanced at Juliet. "I made note of your declaration as well, Detective."

She didn't seem angry about it, so Juliet only nodded, ignoring Carlton's puzzled look her way.

"As it happens," Vick went on more matter-of-factly, "I've bought myself some time." She held up two folders. "By the time you get back, I'll have a decision."

"Back from where?" Juliet asked.

"You're going undercover this weekend. Tomorrow morning, in fact."

Carlton cleared his throat. "Uh, Chief, as much as it pains me to admit, undercover work isn't one of my strengths."

"No, it's not," she agreed with a faint smile, "but I think you two can both handle this one. You're going to a high school reunion as a married couple. Here's the specs. Come back in half an hour and we'll go over the rest."

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Karen Vick opened the folder in front of her, sparing a glance for her two lead detectives. Lassiter looked artificially calm—the kind which suggested he would give 'calm' his best shot but wasn't making any promises—and O'Hara merely seemed uncertain.

"What I gave you were your character backgrounds, which means you know you're Jim and Sherry Tackett from St. Louis, Missouri. Jim, you graduated from Waverly High School in Kern County in 1987, and you and the missus here have been married for eight years." She glanced at them again with a faint smile. "Your anniversary is coming up."

Lassiter shifted in his chair. "I won't forget it this time."

She was privately delighted he'd made a joke, and O'Hara had already relaxed because of it. In fact, she observed, Juliet's look of relief was palpable.

But she had to move on. "Anyway, here's the back story. Waverly High's graduating class in 1987 had 400 students, at least 350 of whom have confirmed their attendance for their twenty-fifth reunion this weekend. The reason for the large number is—"

"State football champs," Lassiter supplied. "I remember."

"Very good. They beat out their rival school…?" She paused to see if he remembered that as well.

"Ashford," he said with a nod.

"Exactly. They've had pitched battles ever since, and this class reunion is a big damn deal. The problem is that threats of violence have been made to the alumni group organizing the affair. The local police have tried to convince them to cancel or postpone, but they can't force them because the threats are non-specific."

"And postponing would only postpone the threat as well," Lassiter agreed.

Juliet asked, "What do the threats say? And how are they being made?"

"They're being mailed, either to the offices of the various organizers or to the high school. There have been six in all."

"And no one person is being targeted?"

"Not so far. The letters say something is going to happen during the reunion, but stop short of expressing—or even hinting—what that might be."

"What are their thoughts about who's behind it?" Lassiter inquired. "Disgruntled Ashford grads, or a guy who didn't make the football team that year?"

Vick smiled. "It's impossible to say at this point, and the letters are vague." She handed him another folder. "There are the copies. The one thing everyone agrees on from the local PD on up is that whoever is making the threats will almost certainly be in attendance during the weekend. This kind of big splashy forewarning indicates someone who will want to be there when it happens, whatever _it_ is, to see the reaction first-hand."

"Why do they need us?" Juliet asked.

"They simply don't have enough manpower, and despite the size of the class, the community is small and local authorities would be recognized. They need people watching on the inside while they're watching the outside. The reunion is being held at the convention center hotel, and it's being swept daily for explosives and anything else which could meet the definition of 'threat.'"

One of Lassiter's dark brows went up. "With this much local interest, how am I going to pass myself off as a graduate?"

"Well, if you noticed in your packet, you were a senior-year transfer to Waverly and missed the school photo session, and your family conveniently moved away the following summer. There's been a lot of change in Waverly over the years according to the PD, and the neighborhood you supposedly lived in doesn't even exist anymore. And, you know, find ways to get _out_ of conversations like that. Chances are no one will delve that deep if you weren't associated with the football team."

"So you just want us to mingle, observe, and report?" Juliet opened her folder and pointed to a particular section. "It says we have kids."

"Two. Adorable. You can talk about them all you like," Karen said with amusement. "And since one of them has the measles, you'll be on the phone as often as necessary to check in."

"Clever," Lassiter commented. "But it sounds—"

Karen gave him a second to continue, and when he didn't, she finished for him. "Simple. It sounds simple. Certainly nothing I need to send my top detectives out on. I know. But truthfully, this is a chance for everyone to cool down and regroup, and I can use the time to make my decision." She closed the folder. "You're leaving in the morning and checking into the last available room at the convention center, a miracle possible only because of a cancellation, but you'll check in with Captain Travanti as soon as you hit town. He'll brief you more fully at the time. Any questions for now?"

There seemed to be none, so she sent them away, relieved it had gone so smoothly and wondering which one would be the first to call her when they realized their hotel room only had one bed, and it wasn't even a king.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Waverly was about twenty miles north of Bakersfield, and the drive from Santa Barbara on Friday morning was pleasant, certainly scenic in the miles which took them through Los Padres. Carlton was at the wheel, of course, and seemed steady enough mood-wise.

Juliet was feeling a touch of optimism. She was unflatteringly relieved to be out of town for a couple of days, away from the possibility of Shawn coming to see her, and she'd left her personal cell at home in lieu of carrying only a department-issued phone in Sherry Tackett's name. It was sad—she was sad—that she welcomed this escape.

It was sadder still that she was pretty sure the break she'd asked for was going to be permanent.

She and Carlton had made good progress on the park killings, enough to pass the case off to Becker and Steel to take over. They had IDed one of the men and were close on the other, plus had leads on some potential witnesses, and Henry hadn't made a single comment about Shawn being pulled from the case… so she knew Shawn had told him about the 'break.'

"Jim, tell me about Marcy," she said suddenly, not wanting to think about any of that.

"Marcy," Carlton said with the faintest of smiles, looking straight ahead, "has my eyes, and thankfully your ears. She just started first grade and wants to be a ballerina."

"What about Thomas?"

"Thomas has _your_ eyes, and regrettably, _my_ ears, but we're talking to a good plastic surgeon and—"

"No, we're not," she laughed, hitting him in the arm. "His big ears are cute. What else?"

"He is four as of last week, and kisses all the girls in his daycare every day."

"Yes, he does," she said proudly. "He'll be a peeping Tom yet."

"Oh hell, we _did_ name our child Tom! Who wrote that profile?" Carlton was laughing, and Juliet was delighted to see it. He cast his blue gaze her way, unmistakably amused. "We're either changing his name or that back story. I will _not_ have a sex-fiend four-year-old for a son."

"Okay, he only _hugs_ them. He's a very loving boy," she said innocently. "Just like his father."

Carlton shook his head. "More like his mother."

She felt a little flushed because he wasn't talking about Sherry Tackett. "No, his dad's got a big heart too. Bigger than he lets people see."

He cleared his throat. "Anyway. I'm a history teacher for a private school, eighth-graders, and you're working your way to the top of the PTA without bloodshed, because while you despise Mary Ann Inman, you refuse to sink as low as she did when she added brown food coloring to the white frosting for the—"

"_Jim_!" she protested, nudging his arm again but laughing anyway. "Don't tell that story."

"Damn," he said with regret. "I _love_ that story."

Just like that she was giggling, half because he was relaxed and funny and half because she was still agitated about his ultimatum to Vick, and plus there was Shawn, but Carlton looked over at her, grinning, and she knew again—like a stab to the heart—that she wouldn't make it without him as her partner. There just wasn't anyone else.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"On behalf of the hotel, I'd like to offer our apology for the items missing from your room." The clerk was nervous, and at first Lassiter thought it was just the usual effect he had on people, until the noise and chaos behind the desk sank in.

"We just got here. What's missing?" He kept his tone mild, and sensed Juliet's approval.

"Well, the sofa, mainly." He handed over the room keycard. "With the reunion in town, we've had to shift some furnishings around to accommodate everyone, and we had to move the sofa bed to another room. We did put in an extra chair for the desk, and of course it's a queen bed so you and your wife should be comfortable. Oh," he added brightly, "and everything in the mini-fridge is free during your stay. Can I be of any other assistance?"

Lassiter made himself be still. Very still.

Juliet smiled at the clerk. "I think we're good." She grasped Lassiter's elbow and pulled him away from the desk. "Come on, honey, let's go get settled before we sign in for the reunion."

Okay, if she wanted to be a man about it, so could he. They were only here two nights and surely the floor was carpeted. Been awhile since he slept on the floor but maybe there were extra pillows in the closet—assuming there was a closet—and suddenly he was pulled back by his partner's voice.

"_Jim_," she said meaningfully, "this is it."

He blinked and looked at the keycard. Room 117, the clerk had said, and this was it. He inserted the card and pushed the door open, letting her pass through first. He carried their small bags and her garment bag in, averting his eyes from the contents of the room until absolutely necessary. He took too much time to hang the garment bag, too much time to place the travel bags just so on the dresser, and finally allowed himself to survey the room itself.

Juliet was standing by the bed—the queen bed which looked like a _twin_ by his estimation—arms folded. "Are you going to freak out?"

He drew himself up and lied with authority. "No." (Well, maybe a little, quietly, privately, to himself.)

"Good. And before you say it, neither one of us is sleeping on the floor. This bed is big enough for two and we've been closer than this on stakeouts, so get over it." Her tone was mostly amused.

Lassiter met her curious gaze and relaxed a little, because Juliet could always, always, get him to relax. "Well, after eight years of marriage, _honey_, a man's gotta have a break."

She immediately threw a pillow at him, and for a second, he thought _eight years with her would barely be a taste_. He caught the pillow deftly and pegged it back, and she advanced with pure mischief in her eyes—and her cell rang.

"Oh! Lucky you. Must be the _babysitter_," she said with a grin. It was Vick, making sure they'd checked in with Captain Travanti when they got to town.

Travanti had told them there'd be another undercover couple working the reunion, a pair of cops from San Luis Obispo, and they were to meet up over dinner. The events included tonight's reception and mixer, a picnic on the convention grounds tomorrow afternoon, and a more formal dinner dance for Saturday evening. "Just keep your eyes open," he said. "Call in anyone or anything which looks off to you."

His money was on a handful of 'miscreants' (Lassiter liked Travanti; 'miscreants' was underused and he liked anyone who took it down off the shelf) who'd been particularly belligerent back in 1987 about football jocks and cheerleaders. Three of the men had done time for various offenses since then, two were living in Los Angeles, and the whereabouts of one were currently unknown, but most of them had registered for the reunion. One of the ex-cons had blown up a savings and loan in the 1990s, so they were particularly interested in him.

Lassiter realized he was watching Juliet as she talked, but not hearing her end of the conversation at all. He was… distracted.

Dammit. They were fully dressed and working a case and yesterday he'd had this under control but now, simply standing in a hotel room, the phone to her ear, one hand supporting her elbow, her wavy golden hair cascading over her shoulder, she was making him think things he usually only allowed himself to think in the dead of night.

Time to unpack, then. Enough of this mindless drooling on his incredibly unavailable partner.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet, although she was Mrs. Sherry Tackett and had every right to touch her husband Jim, felt a little as if she were getting away with something as she confidently grasped Carlton's hand when they neared the meeting room where the reunion registration was set up. His fingers were warm and he only tensed a little bit, and his glance downward held a trace of acceptance.

They were slapped with nametags, asked to sign the 'late registrations' page, and greeted effusively by Pamela Unger and Susie Otten, both of whom swore they remembered Jim Tackett's big blue eyes from all those years ago. Juliet detected a genuine interest on Pamela's part, and reclaimed Carlton's hand as soon as she could.

Susie gave them the agenda and welcome packet and what even Juliet considered a lot of hot air about how fabulous everyone looked and what a fantastic event the reunion was going to be and how the returning members of the football team were going to put on such a show at the picnic tomorrow, gush gush gush mawk mawk mawk.

Beside her, Carlton had partly shut down, but his grip on her hand was tightening, so Juliet said cheerfully that they'd had a long flight in from St. Louis and were going to walk around a bit to unwind.

She knew she didn't have to, but she tucked her arm in his as they walked, and he didn't resist, so that was good. It was nice. _You're working_, she reminded herself. _So is he. And he's probably freaked_.

As they passed one of the mid-sized conference rooms, they were hailed by a group of Jim Tackett's fellow students, a few guys and their wives who had also arrived early from out of town and were looking for familiar faces.

"You probably don't remember me," Carlton assured them. "I was only here the one year and was pretty much invisible."

One of the women, a brunette stuffed into shoes too small for her, said, "Man, I wouldn't have come back for that." She glanced at her husband. "No offense, Jack."

"You should have worn the loafers," he said reasonably. "But I don't have to remember Jim to know he came back for the same reason we all did—to relive our glory days!"

Juliet was surprised at how easily Carlton adapted to his persona, and the women were nice to her as they gave her 'husband' the once-over. He did look good. Dark gray shirt, open at the neck, black slacks, the vivid blue eyes, relaxed manner. She was just wondering about how soft his chest hair might be when Jack's wife Gretchen spoke directly to her.

"Newlyweds?" she asked, smiling at their clasped hands.

Juliet blushed, gripping Carlton's hand harder to prevent his initial reaction of letting go. "No, we're going on eight years now. Two kids."

Gretchen looked her over. "You've held up well, then, honey. I have three and you can see they've pretty much done me in." She looked tired, and the shoes weren't the only thing she was stuffed into.

Sympathizing, Juliet drew her away from the others and managed to find out that Jack had been on the football team, one of the jocks who actually had non-jock friends. Gretchen was friends with a few of the cheerleaders, and remembered the days leading up to the big game as well as the weeks of head-rush-euphoria afterward. The rival school, Ashford, had not taken the loss well, and until she and Jack moved to Reno, each year's football matchup had gotten more and more tense. "Jocks hold grudges," she said with a shrug.

"What about cheerleaders?" Juliet asked, smiling.

"They're not all bitches, I swear, but that spring, our girls beat out Ashford in a state competition as well and oh, did the fur fly." Gretchen smirked. "It just wasn't Ashford's year." She glanced over at Carlton. "He was only here in 1987? I don't remember him at all, sorry."

"He said he was very thin and when he turned sideways, he'd disappear. I think he was sick a lot, too," Juliet assured her. "Turned out good, though, didn't he?"

"Mmm-_hmmmm_, he did." Gretchen laughed. "Hey, I've been married for 24 of the last 25 years so I'm allowed to look. If I'd seen those big blue eyes back in '87 I might have tried to fatten him up enough to be visible from any angle."

Juliet felt unaccountably proud, and looked over at her partner. "Yeah, but then I'd have missed out." She grinned at Gretchen. "So yay for me, girl!"

Carlton came to collect her, hand on her back, curious about why they were laughing, and Juliet wasn't sure she'd be able to tell him later. "They say there's a couple of good restaurants within walking distance. You ready for lunch?"

"I am," she said, smiling at him, catching the honesty in the smile he gave back to her. "I am so ready."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter couldn't remember when he'd had such a pleasant time working without using his gun, besting Spencer or arresting graffiti 'artists.' It was an odd sensation to be working with Juliet in a way which involved simply having lunch, walking the perimeter of the sprawling convention center, snaking their way up and down the halls of the hotel section to learn the lay of the land, and sitting in their room going over the information Travanti had given them.

She was sipping a Coke, twisting a few strands of her hair idly while studying the recent photos of Travanti's chief suspects, and for a second Lassiter didn't think he would be able to drag his gaze from her at all.

Was he… dammit, was he this _easy_? Or God forbid, this _green_, that going undercover as half of a married couple had so quickly turned him into a lovestruck moron?

No. He refused to spend one more moment analyzing his feelings for Juliet. She was in a relationship, specifically with the clod who was making him contemplate a significant career change, and no matter how much Sherry Tackett might look up to her husband, Juliet O'Hara would never be that happy with Carlton Lassiter.

So. Not one more moment. Enough.

"I'm getting another Coke," he said abruptly; the mini-fridge had been short on beverages. "Can I bring you one?"

She looked up, startled. "Sure. Get some ice, too?"

He grabbed up the bucket on his way out as if it were a life preserver. In the hall, he paused to take a deep breath. Then another.

At the ice machine he ran into a couple more Waverly alumni, one of whom was sure she remembered him, and he humored her up until she asked if they'd ever made out behind the gym, at which point he felt the heat in his face, and he hated to blush; he hated it—the woman was amused and her friend giggled and he excused himself as abruptly as he'd left Juliet and walked quickly back to their room.

She was halfway out of her shirt, her flat stomach bare before him, her upraised arms lifting her lace-covered breasts just so, and he turned without a word and strode the halls, still carrying the ice bucket, for fifteen minutes.

His cell rang at the sixteenth minute, and he didn't want to answer because it was Juliet.

"Come back to the room, Carlton. I'm decent and ready for that Coke."

"Okay," he said gruffly, and disconnected.

It was the longest walk of his life, that distance to their room.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She didn't know why she'd done it.

When Carlton didn't come back immediately with the Coke, she figured he'd gotten caught up in a hallway conversation, and she merely wanted to change early for the night's events. She _could_ have stepped into the bathroom; it would have taken an extra second at _best_ to close that door.

But no. She'd just started to shuck off that shirt like she was in her own home, and the look—oh, _the look_—on his face when he came in had truly startled her. He was terrified and attracted and she could see it all so plainly in his blue eyes during the two seconds he stood there agape.

_Attracted_.

And now painfully embarrassed. Here she'd thought having to share a bed would be his undoing, but they hadn't even made it that far and he was already in shock.

When he returned, he barely spoke to her, let alone looked her in the eye. She didn't push it, pretending everything was normal because that's what he needed; she knew it because she knew _him_, dammit; poor vulnerable Carlton, and God, what she wouldn't do to ease his awkwardness.

They quietly got ready for the evening's events, and in near-silence went to meet the other undercover couple in the hotel bar to have a drink before the mixer.

"You're going to have to talk to me sometime," she pointed out carefully as they took seats in a booth near the door.

Carlton looked up, and then immediately away, summoning a waiter who was already on his way over. "I'm talking to you," he said curtly.

After the waiter took their drink orders, she leaned across the table and stared at him until he met her gaze reluctantly. "Carlton. It's okay. It's my fault and I'm sorry. But you're supposed to be my happy husband now, so please, for the case, relax."

Now he was surprised, blue eyes uncertain. "Why are _you_ apologizing? I should have knocked."

Juliet sighed. "No, because we're married, remember? I should have gone into the bathroom. I'm… really, this is my fault. Please just… it's okay. Okay?" When he still stared, unsure, she said somewhat flippantly, "Besides, it didn't burn your eyes or anything, did it? Because I can take you to the ER if necessary."

He blushed, and she was appalled (and touched), and when the waiter reappeared with their drinks, he grabbed his off the tray and downed it in two gulps. "Another," he said tersely.

That did it; she laughed. She laughed until finally a smile tugged at his lips and his blush receded and he leaned back in the seat half-scowling, half-grinning.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, _Sherry_. I'm good."

"Glad to hear it, Jim." She smiled, toasted him with her still-full glass, and suddenly realized she hadn't thought about Shawn in hours. This man, this complicated man across from her; _he_ was occupying her mind now.

Really, she didn't have any objections to that. She _liked_ him. She liked her dysfunctional, cranky partner very much and liked him best of all when he was at ease, and prided herself that he could be at ease with _her_ more than anyone else.

She also found him impossibly attractive and wondered about walking in on him with _his_ shirt off; she wouldn't mind a good long look at the rest of the chest hair. Hmmm, that called for another swallow of Drop It, Stupid.

The San Luis Obispo team approached; 'Rob and Kate Rankin' for the weekend, they were actually Lenny Matthews and Linda Darrow, partners for ten years and well-suited. Juliet wondered how she and Carlton looked to them. Were _they_ well-suited?

He got up to shake Rob's hand, and sat next to her when the 'Rankins' joined them, and feeling his body heat and knowing there was no way her break from Shawn wasn't permanent, she felt very damn well-suited to her partner.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The Rankins were working the east side of the convention hall as the mixer/reception unfolded; the Tacketts took the west. Lassiter and Juliet stayed close enough to be able to rescue each other if conversations with alumni became too probing, but he had to admit he needed a little breather from her.

From her loveliness.

He could kick himself. Repeatedly. Why hadn't he knocked? Why hadn't he stayed one second longer with the women at the ice machine? Why were his legs so damn long that he got down the hallway as fast as he did?

Why was she so terribly, _terribly_ pretty?

Sighing, he watched her talking to some ex-cheerleader (Botox, too-blonde hair, spandex leggings), while a couple of guys nearby watched her too. On the one hand, he wanted to march over and deck them for ogling his 'wife,' but on the other, well, damn, that silvery blue skirt and top brought out her eyes, and her healthy glow was enhanced by her golden hair, and for a second he wondered about that lacy bra he'd glimpsed.

The cash bar was close by. Yeah. Drink more.

_Knock it off, Lassiter_, he ordered himself. _You're working_. _And when you get back, you will encourage Vick to assign O'Hara a new partner who _won't_ obsess over her, so you never have to deal with this again_. Best for both of them. It was. His heart ached. Dammit.

On the north side of the room, the band started up, something half-raucous to announce the beginning of speeches by the hosts, and Juliet came to collect him, slipping her hand into his as if she had every right to torment him. She pulled him over to the side where they could see the crowd facing the stage, and together they scanned the faces and body language of the alumni for clues.

Pamela Unger and Susie Otten, flanked by their husbands, took the microphone and welcomed everyone to the reunion. There was applause, a chorus of the fight song, a detailing of all the fabulous things lined up for the weekend, a reminder of the exhibition game during the picnic along with other competitions, and finally introductions of the reunion committee.

He already knew Pamela and Susan had headed the cheerleading squad, and some of the others introduced were the football players who'd brought the most glory to the school way back in '87.

Juliet squeezed his hand and leaned in close. "See the guy over by the exit on the east side? He's been sort of skulking all night."

Lassiter checked; he'd noticed the man too. "Shall we go in for a closer look?"

"Why yes, Mr. Tackett." She grinned, and they ambled around the edges of the throng in no particular hurry. The man's attention was focused on the committee anyway, and they were only about ten feet away when he noticed them.

Sparing them a brief glance—somewhat baleful—he drank deep from his beer and angled himself away, more directly toward the stage.

Lassiter stepped up briskly, offering his hand. "Randy? Randy—oh, sorry, you looked like Randy Monmouth."

The man's nametag read Nic Oswell, but he shook Lassiter's hand anyway. "Happy reunion, man. Did I know you?"

"Doubtful," Lassiter said, but Oswell interrupted.

"I know I'd remember _this_ girl." His tone was admiring yet vaguely creepy, and Lassiter felt Juliet's grip on his hand intensify.

He tightened his own as well. "Were you on the team?"

Oswell rolled his eyes. "Hardly. I couldn't make waterboy back then. But my ex was on the cheerleading squad." He gestured to Pamela Unger. "Fit 'em like a glove, too. Crazy chicks all headed for early hag-dom."

Juliet cleared her throat. "Divorced long?"

Oswell gave her a look which could have been either amusement or annoyance. "Long enough," he finally said. "They're going to start dancing soon. Save one for me?"

She smiled tightly. Lassiter knew her exact level of creeped-out-ness, and intervened with a smooth, "For the first twenty dances, she's all mine." He nodded at Oswell, and led Mrs. Tackett away.

"We'll be checking up on that guy," she said grimly.

"He wasn't on Travanti's list."

"He will be now." They were at the edge of the dance area and as if on cue, the hosts announced it was time for some non-football fancy footwork. "Dance with me," she said simply.

He only knew how to slow-dance (and tap, which wasn't really appropriate in this setting), but he managed to turn her around the floor well enough. He liked making her smile, and liked even more how she felt in his arms. He hoped the smile was real and not part of the performance, even though they were both better off if it was all an act.

Juliet said, "Don't let anyone cut in, please," and when the first real slow-dance started, she rested her head on his chest, her arms around his neck, swaying with him in a way which made him hope like hell she couldn't feel his pounding heart.

As if he'd let anyone cut in _now_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet sighed, warm in Carlton's arms. She was an idiot, yes she was, because his heartbeat was fast and he was trying to hold her without holding her at all and this was going to be a long weekend if she was going to have to coax him through every minute of it.

Of course, her heartbeat might have been a little fast, too. She was enjoying this too much, this closeness.

He smelled so good. He looked so good in the white shirt, open at the neck, the gray slacks, the blue of his eyes piercing even in the half-light.

Hell, maybe Carlton did need a new partner. If she couldn't trust herself to get through a few dances without practically drooling on him, how was she going to get back to their normal workday routine?

But no. _No new partner_. She would take cold showers and sleep on porcupines if it that's what it took to stay detached from these new(ish) feelings for him. Emphasis on the ish.

She was not letting him get away from her, and if she had to choose partner over drool-object, she'd choose partner.

Both, now… both would be pretty damn nice.

But partner first.

The dance ended and she needed a drink like never before, and they met up with the 'Rankins' at the bar. They compared notes on various 'interesting' alumni, and Linda said Nic Oswell had hit on her already, with her 'husband' just a few feet away at the time.

They'd noticed a couple of other potential disgruntleds, one of whom was on Travanti's list, and Carlton offered to call in what they'd all seen.

Juliet stayed with the Rankins while he went out to make that call. Lenny was drawn into a generic football conversation with a nearby clump of alumni, and Linda sank into the seat next to Juliet. "Damn shoes. Why are women so stupid?"

"No clue. We're supposed to be the smarter sex, right?"

"I wonder. Well, you have an excuse; your partner's tall. I'm just stupid because my mother beat it into me that women are supposed to wear heels, and no matter how many years go by, I can't shake it."

Juliet admitted, "I even wear them on the job. I don't know why. Carlton's perfected an eyeroll specifically for my shoes."

"And with eyes like that," Linda said dryly, "that'd be pretty impressive. You've been under with him before? You seem like a good team."

"We _are_ a good team, but no, not really. He, um, well… this isn't one of his strengths. By his own admission," she added quickly. "He's the best at most everything else."

Linda grinned. "And he lets you know that?"

"Oh… not really. When I was still new, I guess. He did have a sort of 'let me educate you in the ways of detective work' tone sometimes. But over the last few years…" And she paused, thinking it through. "He just takes it for granted that I'm going to do my best." This realization made her smile. "And I do. For him."

Linda's eyebrows went up. "That sounds—"

Juliet hurried to add, "Not like that. It's just that he's the head detective and it means a lot to me to have his respect. He doesn't give it easily and… and it matters. I've learned so much from him over the years, and while I would never suggest he's perfect in any way, I can say he's… he's the best partner I could ever have." She looked at her earnestly. "Does that sound corny?"

She smiled. "Nope. It sounds fine. Something personal going on there? Wait, that's none of my business." She bent to adjust the back of her shoe, giving Juliet a chance to breathe after the cardiac arrest caused by the simple question.

Still, she had to answer it. "No, there's not. I guess it's a typical partnership. I mean, you and Lenny have a history too, right? Whether or not anything personal came out of it? Ten years should make for a pretty strong bond."

Linda sat up straight and gave her a wry look. "Honey, I'd marry him tomorrow if he asked me."

While Juliet's mouth was hanging open, Carlton and Lenny both returned to where they sat. "Done," Carlton said.

"Dance?" Lenny asked Linda, who smiled at Juliet meaningfully before putting herself and her aching feet back into his grasp.

Carlton sat beside Juliet. "How are you doing?"

She looked at him, at the lines of his lean face, at his long dark lashes and astonishingly blue eyes. "I am doing surprisingly well," she finally told him, _for a woman who's just figured out why you're so important to her_.

His smile was slow. "Glad to hear it. Drink or dance?"

"First one, then the other?"

"Agreed."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter, despite a rather marvelous evening with Juliet, felt his tension returning as they got closer to their room.

This was it.

This was sharing a bed with her. With Juliet.

_Yes, yes, you idiot, fully dressed, and it's a queen, not a twin, and you're not going to go up in smoke, and you're not going to spontaneously roll over and attack her in your sleep, because it's not like you're actually going to be _able_ to sleep, buddy, just forget that crap right now_.

Unless there were a few bottles of mini-Jack in that mini-fridge.

He'd packed flannel pajama bottoms—dark blue plaid, discreet—and a t-shirt, and hoped to God he wouldn't look ridiculous to her.

She showered first, filling the room with the scent of peaches after she came out wrapped securely in her robe. He was lying on the bed flipping aimlessly through the channels on the TV, pretending not to notice how fresh and lovely she looked, even with damp tendrils of hair curling around her rosy cheeks.

He went on to pretend he was watching CNN when she took the robe off later and revealed her own pajama pants and tee, climbing into bed beside him. Immediately he got up to make his own bedtime preparations. Maybe she would be asleep when he came out. Maybe the image of her showering could be driven away if he sprayed deodorant in his eyes.

When he emerged, the room was quiet, the TV turned down. She was lying on her side facing the curtained window, and didn't stir when he slipped into bed. TV off. Lamp off.

Every nerve ending ON.

He lay on his back, not moving.

There was a faint red spot of light on the far wall—the smoke detector doing its silent job—and he stared at it until it became several spots. Then he stared at the blinking green 12:00 on the microwave for awhile. Then he studied the line of light under the door to the hallway.

_Sleep, dammit_.

_SLEEP_.

There was a rustle beside him and suddenly he was hit in the face with a pillow.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, as the pummeling continued. "O'Hara, what the _hell_?" He grabbed at the weapon and held it back out of her reach, sitting up.

Juliet was outlined by the dim light around the curtains, and she was out of breath. "You have to relax, Carlton, or neither one of us will get any sleep."

"What are you talking about?" _Deny, deny, deny_. "I'm lying here minding my own business and you—"

She swatted him with his own pillow. "I can feel you, Carlton. I can feel your stress like a—like a—" She gave up searching for the right analogy and swatted him again.

"O'Hara, knock it off," he snapped, slightly annoyed now, and when she wouldn't stop, he swatted her back.

At first he was appalled—but Juliet actually laughed. "_Now_ it's on!"

He didn't know what came over him but he found himself laughing too as the pummel-fest commenced, and it wasn't until she had advanced to his side of the bed, struggling to retrieve the pillow he'd snatched from her grasp, that it stopped being funny.

Juliet had him—_him_—pinned down, trying to wrest the pillow away; she was straddling him, both of them breathing hard, the laughter fading as they both realized the intimacy of their position. At least that's why _he_ stopped laughing. She may have stopped because she regretted starting the pillow fight.

_Oh, God_, he thought. _Oh, dear God_.

"Yeah," she whispered. "It's on."

She lowered her head slowly, so slowly, as if she thought he might somehow bolt from underneath her, but Lassiter was frozen both by shock and desire. Her thighs were warm against his sides, her breath was warm on his face, and her peach scent was irresistible, and so was she.

Damn it to _hell_, so was she.

She kissed him, her lips gentle and soft, and Lassiter dropped the pillow and let his arms circle her body. If he was going to hell in a hand basket, he might as well go in style.

Such soft, sweet lips. Such a teasing, tentative, delicious tongue meeting his. Flavor of mint toothpaste.

He could feel her heart pounding—_finally_, damn, it wasn't just _him_ nearing cardiac shutdown—and her kisses moved to his throat and cheeks. He ran his fingers through the cascades of her peach-scented hair, sighing deeply.

"So much for relaxing," she said softly. She had stopped, and was staring down at him in the dim light. "Are we back to square one?"

Lassiter thought about it. He wanted her, but he thought about it, and surprisingly, he did feel better than before, because now he knew… he didn't know exactly what he knew, but it was better than feeling like the only total moron in the room. Somehow, knowing she was attracted to him enough to kiss him… _wasn't_ terrifying.

"We're good," he said, his voice low to match hers.

"Good." She moved off him slowly, and he gave her back her pillow while adjusting his. She surprised him one last time by staying close, resting her body against his, pulling the coverlet up. No distance between them at all.

And he slept wonderfully.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

When Juliet woke up, Carlton was already out of the room, a note on the table saying he'd gone for his run. She stretched out on the bed, yawning. While he'd slept well enough judging by his even breathing, she had been awake a long time. Buzzed.

Buzzed by having kissed him, being kissed by him, and wanting more. She had to force herself to spend those waking hours also thinking about her relationship with Shawn, and where it was going.

And she knew: it was going nowhere.

It was going _nowhere_, regardless of what happened with Carlton. It hurt to accept it, because… dammit, Shawn could be so sweet and he really did love her and they'd waited so long for their shot. But now they'd had it. And she'd had it with _trying_. Trying to accept his narcissism. Trying to accept his invasive ways. Trying to accept his certainty that no rules, ever, applied to him. _Trying_.

At the end of their so-called romantic retreat, she'd told him the weekend exceeded her expectations. Now she understood how depressingly low her expectations had been.

She let out a profound sigh, and the minutes ticked away in the silent room.

_Sooo… can we talk about that kiss?_

_Ummm… do we _have_ to?_

_Well, you liked it; right?_

_Damn straight I did. And he seemed to like it, too. But he probably thinks I'm a rotten person. He doesn't know I took 'a break' from Shawn. He might think I'm just leading him on. _

Her mind drifted, thinking of the kiss. She could have gone on kissing him for awhile, truth be told; his mouth felt perfect. Perfect. Perfectly fitted to hers. Perfectly sensual. Perfectly arousing. And his body under hers had been a strong, solid heat. His arms around her, and his fingers in her hair, and his sigh… oh… mmmmm… she rolled over, restless. Just as well he was out of the room, if this kind of mood was going to strike her.

"Enough," she said out loud. There was work to be done.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

They breakfasted and met up with 'the Rankins' for a stroll around the grounds. The outdoor festivities were starting at eleven, and the reunion committee and their minions were already hard at work finishing the setup.

Lassiter glanced over at Juliet, who was talking to Linda Darrow. She had been bright and 'normal' and thankfully fully dressed when he got back to the room after his run, and he could almost forget the haste with which he had exited the room before she woke.

Despite that haste, he felt much more at ease with her today, and of course this was strange even to him; having kissed should have made everything awkward and weird and embarrassing, especially given the uncertainty he'd created over his own job.

But instead he felt… like a door had opened, or a hurdle had been crossed. He had no expectations anything would change between them, nor any belief that anything _should_; they were still partners and she was still with Spencer and the litany of reasons to remain detached was as long as it ever had been.

He did think, more definitely, that Karen Vick _should_ separate them as part of her final decision regarding his ultimatum. He didn't _want_ this, but it was logical. It was the right thing to do, for the sake of Juliet's career.

At eleven, most everyone seemed to be in attendance, speeches were made, Pamela and Susie cooed at the throng and lunch was eventually served.

Their fellow undercover cops agreed with them that no one was behaving unduly suspiciously, and Travanti had checked in to confirm that his team had found nothing unusual on the grounds to suggest any nefarious deeds were planned. He'd also added Nic Oswell to the watch list, but said there wasn't anything particularly of note in his history beyond a domestic disturbance call ten years earlier involving a garden gnome, his soon-to-be-ex-wife's plate glass living room window, and two cans of shaving cream.

So it might, Lassiter decided, turn out to be only a nice day in a park.

And that couldn't be right.

**. . . .  
><strong>**. . .**

"Why hasn't he asked you?"

Linda Darrow looked at Juliet in surprise, but understood the question and smiled wryly. "Inertia?"

Juliet really wanted to know. "Does he at least _want_ to ask you?"

"I think so. We're… we're an open secret, I guess, at the station. But marrying would make it more formal, and Lenny's still not ready to go all-out public."

"How long have you been a couple?"

"Four years. We kept it at bay for three years before that, but eventually, you know, you just have to accept what _is_." She sipped her cola, giving Juliet a curious glance. "Do you know what _is_ for you and your partner?"

Juliet wasn't going to pretend innocence. This woman _knew_, because she'd been there. She was _there_. "No, but I know what I'd like. It's complicated, though. He's complicated."

"They're all complicated, honey." Linda was grinning. "Or at least _they_ think so." She leaned against the side of the bleachers. "I noticed how you danced last night. You _fit_."

She couldn't help but feel… dreamy, and didn't miss Linda's slight smirk. "Okay, so maybe it's not that complicated. He's been hurt before and he's got trust issues and you already know getting involved with a partner is tricky. Nothing's happened between us." _Liar_. "He's… skittish. And I've kept my distance." _Tell her about last night, liar_. _Tell her about sitting on his chest and licking his lips and finding out how well he can kiss. Yeah. Tell her that_. "And… I've got a boyfriend."

Linda whistled. "Uh, that kinda trumps _him_ being complicated, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, well, 'complicated' is a democratic sort of word." Juliet sighed. "I don't know what to do but I'm going to do something."

"That's a nicely vague place to start."

"Couples' darts!" bellowed John Pollard, one of the committee minions. "Come throw sharp pointy things over here!"

Gretchen, whom they'd met yesterday, hurried over to Juliet, gesturing to Carlton. "Come play against me and Jack. We're terrible so you'll probably win."

Carlton had been talking to Jack, who heard Gretchen's words and protested, "We are not terrible! I've only ever hit one person with a dart and it was because he leapt in front of the board!"

Gretchen rolled her eyes and told the women, "Yeah, those octogenarians, they're real jumpers. Come on!"

Carlton was amenable, so they went over to the dartboards—three of them, hung from trees at the edge of the park—and signed up for a turn against Gretchen and Jack.

Pollard came around to hand out the darts, and kept up a steady carny-esque patter the whole time. "_Get_ your darts here, ladies and germs, _relieve_ that stress, _pretend_ it's your mother-in-law's face up there, _crush_ the competition, let's go, let's go, let's _go_!"

When the three teams were ready, he continued, "Kiss for luck! C'mon, ladies, kiss your men; men, kiss your ladies; we can't have couples' darts without a kiss!"

Juliet, heretofore amused by his schtick, wondered how Carlton would handle it.

"No kiss for luck?" Pollard asked, standing in front of them with an expectant grin.

Juliet glanced at Carlton and saw the muscle twitching in his jaw—and covered his potential embarrassment with a bright, "He's got me!" as if a kiss were superfluous.

Pollard laughed, but to her surprise Carlton said with certainty, "Yes, I do."

When she looked at him again, he was smiling down at her, and his expression was bemused.

And then he bent his head to kiss her, hesitating only a second before their lips met. "For much more than darts," he murmured too softly for anyone else to hear.

It was only a brief kiss, but it was sweet and tingly and she wished the still-grinning Pollard were elsewhere. Not just to kiss Carlton again, but to ask him to give her a list of the 'much more.'

"That's more like it," Pollard declared, moving on.

"Yes, it is," Carlton agreed, but would not meet her gaze in the seconds before the competition began.

Yes, it was, she thought. _Yes_.

**. . . .  
><strong>**. . .**

They lost to the third couple, but did beat Gretchen and Jack, and retreated to the edge of the group of onlookers. Elsewhere, the minions were setting up for ice cream dessert and more speeches and awards by the committee before the football game started in an hour.

He heard her sigh slightly, and glanced at her. "You okay?"

She smiled. "I'm fine. It's such a pretty day and it's hard to believe someone wants to ruin it."

"Whackjobs don't care about the weather," he observed.

"Guess not."

"Let's define 'whackjob,'" said a disturbingly familiar voice, and both turned.

Lassiter stared at Spencer, feeling a coldness settle over him.

Juliet was stunned. "Shawn, what in the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Spencer grinned like there was no reason at all for them to be surprised. "I came to see you. Both of you," he qualified.

"Leave immediately," Lassiter said flatly, biting back the much ruder things he wanted to say.

"How did you find us?" she demanded, and at the same time took his arm to draw him away from the others, tugging on Lassiter's arm as well.

Stopping a fair distance from the nearest gaggle of alumni, she dropped Spencer's arm, folded hers, and glared.

"Jules, come on—I'm psychic!"

"Oh, I _will_ slap you."

Lassiter looked at her; she was serious. No hint of a smile on her normally sunny face.

"Look," Spencer began, "I really did come here to talk to you both. I figured, neutral ground, moderate tempers, nice day—it's all good, right? Neutral ground?" He paused. "Bueller?"

"We're undercover," she hissed. "That is not neutral ground. How did you know where we were?"

"Well, you didn't answer my calls, right?" Spencer's expression was one of apparent befuddlement. "Naturally I got a little worried, so I went over to your place and saw you'd left your phone there."

Juliet's arms got tighter around her chest. Lassiter wanted to reach out and pull them loose, but she might deck him. "My phone was on my bedside table. That means you went inside."

"You did give me a key," Spencer said, his tone just a touch patronizing.

"Shawn. If my car wasn't there and it was a workday, you had no reason to go into my apartment. At all."

He rushed past that detail. "Anyway, I went down to the station, since Lassie—_Lassiter_—wasn't answering his phone either."

It was true; Lassiter had ignored seven calls and six texts from Spencer since Wednesday.

"So?" she demanded. "No one at the station would have told you where we were. That's why it's called _undercover_, Shawn."

"I know, I know, but look. I was worried. My dad wouldn't tell me anything, Vick gave me one of those killer glares, and I—well, I looked in your day planner, that's all. And I figured out where you were." He added slyly, "Got here just in time to see the darts competition and a little kissy-face."

Lassiter tensed, but glanced at Juliet, who looked remarkably like an ice maiden. However, this ice maiden was also about to kill; he was all too aware of the Glock tucked in her handbag, since he himself was currently unarmed (Travanti having insisted there would be no way to properly conceal a weapon with the casual clothes he would be expected to wear).

"Spencer," he began, because no matter how much the clod deserved it, he couldn't let Juliet blow their cover by blowing her boyfriend away, "you'd better—"

But Juliet interrupted, blue-gray ice-eyes focused only on Spencer. "My day planner was locked in the top drawer. That means you either broke in, or at some point in the past stole and copied my desk key. I would really like to hear what stupid-ass excuse you come up with to justify either of those actions, Shawn. Really. Go on."

Spencer, with a swallow, obviously decided to skip ahead. "All right, look. I wanted to talk to you both at the same time."

"While we're _undercover_," she said with enough shards of glass mixed with the ice to kill a man.

Or a woman, Lassiter thought, to be fair. Maybe two women, if they were really thin. "You've said enough to _me_," he told Spencer, and started to walk away; what was going to happen didn't need him as witness.

"Wait, Las—what's his name?" Spencer hissed to Juliet.

"Jim," she hissed back.

"Jim!" he shouted, and Lassiter—seeing some of the alumni turn curiously—had no choice but to go back. "Okay, everyone calm down. I'm here to apologize. La—_Jim_, you're a great cop, you know I think so, you've saved my life more than once and Gus' too and you shouldn't worry what I think about your police skills."

Lassiter stared at him. "I don't care what you _think_, Spencer. I care what you say in public. I care how you undermine me at every opportunity. I care how you go out of your way to tell the world that the cop leading the investigation is incompetent. That's what I care about. What you _think_ is totally irrelevant, and I can _still_ kick your ass."

Juliet advanced on Spencer. "So can I."

A touch of his usual cockiness came back, and he said with a smirk, "Well, if I _let_ you, yeah. And Jim, I wouldn't be so sure. I could grab on to your flappy ears and just—"

Detecting the motion before Spencer did, Lassiter caught Juliet's arm before she let fly with what surely would have been the mother of all slaps. Releasing her as soon as she nodded curtly, he said, "I'm done with you, Spencer," and walked away.

There was a picnic table about fifty feet away and he stopped, sitting on the bench and looking back toward Spencer and Juliet. Theirs was a very tense conversation, particularly on her side. Much gesticulation. Anyone watching would have had much to wonder about, and Lassiter was past caring. He could only hope everyone's attention was focused on the ice cream portion of the afternoon's entertainment, starting up off to his left.

He didn't know what it would take for her to finally reach her limit, but if he were Spencer, he'd be terrified about now. Then again, the self-proclaimed psychic was notoriously clueless about the women Lassiter had known to be in his life—but how in God's name could he be so stupid as to risk his relationship with Juliet? Juliet was—she was—she was the Holy Grail of women Lassiter had ever known personally. She was… God, she was beautiful and wonderful and sexy and a crack shot and he'd kill for a chance to—_stop it, Lassiter_.

She was approaching him now, and Spencer was walking away. His posture suggested things had not gone well, and Lassiter, unexpectedly, felt a twinge of pity for the idiot.

Juliet sat next to him on the bench, sighing. "And just like that, it ends."

He looked her over judiciously, not allowing his internal reaction to show. "You okay?"

"I will be." She faced him, turning on the bench. "I was really upset on Wednesday. You know I was. I was angry with him and terrified about your ultimatum to Vick and after you left I told Shawn I needed a break. I asked him to stay away for a while." She traced a knothole on the bench with one slightly-shaking finger. "I had never been so angry with him as I was that day. I thought, when he pushed my father back into my life, that he couldn't possibly ever do anything as thoughtless and… unthinkingly _cruel _as that… and that I would never again have a reason to be so angry and hurt and—" She stopped, taking a breath, and Lassiter wanted with sudden desperation to take her into his arms. Looking at him earnestly now, she said, "I'm so sorry, Carlton."

He was surprised. "What for?"

Juliet put her hand on his arm, sliding it down slowly to his wrist. "I'm sorry I didn't do more to prevent this situation."

Lassiter felt her sorrow as much as he heard it in her tone, and marveled that she'd be thinking about _him_ after breaking up with her boyfriend. "O'Hara," he said gently, "It wasn't your battle to fight. _I _should have done more to prevent it. I should have cut him off at the knees the first time it happened."

"You were trying to be professional. The grownup."

"Not always," he reminded her. "I took more than a few shots right back, remember."

"Yeah, and sometimes I wanted to smack you both," she admitted with a little grin. "But overall you took the high road more often. And you shouldn't have had to."

"O'Hara, stop—" He hesitated. "Stop."

"And it _was _my battle," she insisted sadly. "I'm your partner. I should have been there at your side."

"You were. Every day you remained my partner, you were."

"Why would I want to work with anyone else?" Her eyes were bright and her tone a bit fierce. "Did you ever?"

Lassiter let out a breath slowly. "No. Never."

She lifted her cool hand to his cheek, and he felt warmth suffusing him at her touch. "Then understand how important you are to me. I told Shawn my partnership—my friendship—with you was the longest, most stable relationship of my life." She moved her hand gently, stirring him. "I didn't tell him it was also the most meaningful. The one I value most. The one it would kill me to lose." Her voice was a whisper now, or maybe it was just that his pounding heart was drowning her out.

"O'Hara," he murmured, because this could not be happening and using a low voice might help. "You're in shock."

"No, I'm not, and Mrs. Tackett is going to kiss her husband now." Before he could react, she'd slid closer. This kiss was not chaste. This one was sensual, unmistakably so, as her mouth fit to his and she melted her body to him.

Lassiter sighed, letting his should-know-better arms snake around her. His self-control took a big hit once he felt her tongue against his, and if they'd kissed like this over by the dartboards, they'd have been disqualified for indecent behavior.

She was the one to pull away, but not far, her forehead to his shoulder and her arms around his neck.

Pause.

"I know what you're thinking," she murmured.

Doubtful. Well, maybe, judging by her trembling against him.

"The case, the situation, Shawn," she continued, her head still down and her voice soft. Then she looked fully at him, her eyes with that same impassioned light. "But this is real, Carlton. This is separate. This is."

For a moment he didn't understand... but then he did. This _is_.

His heart twisted a bit with a feeling of ... uncertain... good... warmth... hope?... love.

He stared at her, and the look in her misty blue eyes did nothing to stop the hope.

Clearly another kiss was in order, but then things over by the ice cream social area started exploding.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The explosions were small, numerous, and centered around the tables where the committee minions were seated.

Smoke, fire, screams. Juliet and Carlton converged with Linda and Lenny and the uniformed officers who'd materialized from wherever they'd lurked, and all of them tried to contain the chaos.

There were numerous injuries but no fatalities; it took six ambulances (two from another town) and a couple of EMT trucks to treat and when necessary carry away the injured.

Carlton was furious. There was no time to talk, but Juliet knew he blamed himself—and Shawn—for not being prepared. Their backs had been turned (she could hear him thinking it, because she was thinking it too) when all hell broke loose. But she shouldered the blame herself: if she hadn't kissed him; if she'd just left him alone after breaking it off with Shawn… hell, if she'd told Shawn to get lost the minute he showed up. _If they'd just done their jobs_.

If Shawn hadn't made it _impossible_ for them to do their jobs.

"I thought they checked the grounds for explosives?" Lenny asked grimly, helping Gretchen get to the EMTs.

Captain Travanti himself arrived, pissed off and worried as hell in equal measures. "What happened?" he demanded of Carlton.

"We'd like to ask _you_ that," Linda Darrow intervened, wiping someone's blood off her face. "You said the grounds were clear. We were watching the _people_. No one seemed suspicious."

Juliet, standing slightly behind Carlton, gripped his wrist when he seemed about to heap more accusations on Travanti. He glanced at her, and relaxed. He knew. _They_ were the ones on the scene. _They_ were the ones who were supposed to catch what the guys on the outside couldn't see.

The fire marshal hurried over. "We've got it, Captain." He held up a small charred hunk of metal. "This is a napkin dispenser, the spring-loaded kind. Every one of them on the target tables was wired." He turned the ruined object over. "We've found evidence of timers, but really, this was all pretty primitive and low-key. I don't think they were designed to kill, but merely disrupt."

"Which they certainly did." Travanti walked toward 'ground zero,' and they followed. Five long tables had been lined up to seat the committee, plus the cheerleaders and football players from 1987. Each table must have had at least four napkin dispensers on it, and they had gone off at nearly the same time, when most of the designated seat-holders were enjoying their ice cream, much of which still lay melting on the ruined tables.

"They were brought in," Carlton said. "Whoever did the catering for the picnic. Someone who had access to their supplies."

"Monarch Catering," Juliet said, pointing to the name on the ice cream tent.

Travanti got out his cell phone and made a call back to the station. "We'll cross-reference their employee list with the attendees." He looked around the field, at the scattered and confused alumni and the fading dream of recapturing glory. "Guess the exhibition they got wasn't a football game after all."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

The evening's festivities weren't cancelled; so many people had come to town for the reunion and they had no place else to go, so the convention hall was filled with (somewhat subdued) fortysomethings who, even if they hadn't known each other well in school, certainly had the shared experience of the ice cream _anti_-social to talk about now.

Lassiter was exhausted and wanted a shower. He and Juliet and the others had stayed at the scene most of the afternoon, and then relocated to the police station to take and review statements, and their inadequate and long-ago dinner there of pizza and wings left much to be desired.

He looked at Juliet across the table; she still had a smudge of ash on her forehead and blood on her sleeves and blouse. She looked tired, but focused, frowning at the statement in front of her.

But she was beautiful, even tired, and she had kissed him today and implied there was something between them which would change forever their working relationship.

If she meant it… if she meant what he thought she meant… what he wanted her to mean…

Lenny clapped a hand on his shoulder. He and Linda were heading back to San Luis Obispo, and the four of them shook hands and agreed it had been an _interesting_ weekend.

After they'd left, Juliet looked at him somewhat anxiously. "You're not going to make me get in a car and go back to Santa Barbara tonight, are you? I'm wiped out."

"You could sleep in the car," he suggested.

"You're wiped out, too," she retorted. "We're staying. I need sleep and so do you."

He was too tired to argue with her, and there wasn't enough coffee in this entire town to change that.

Travanti came into the room, grinning. "We got him. Actually her. One of the silent partners in Monarch Catering is Roxanne Shipley, who just happens to have been a 1987 Ashford grad, head cheerleader, bitter not only about the loss of the big game but also about the loss of her then-boyfriend to Susie Otten. That's what the catering staff scuttlebutt is, anyway. We're picking her up now."

Was that it? It seemed so. Travanti thanked them for their assistance, offered them the last of the cold pizza (they declined) and sent them away.

Back at the convention center hotel, they walked by the main hall to see the uninjured and injured alike continuing with their big reunion. The music was perhaps muted, and the conversation not as raucous as one might expect, but there they were, and Lassiter had to admit they might have the right idea, celebrating this different kind of victory—survival. But then he was feeling a bit more optimistic than usual.

Juliet slipped her hand into his as they walked down the hall to their room. "I really am tired," she said softly, "but I'm glad I'm tired with you."

He clasped her hand firmly and used it to gently move her back against the wall outside their door. She sighed, her face luminous in the so-so lighting, and he kissed her because… well, because. Because he could. Because she was letting him. Because she was kissing him back and her lips were so sweet and her body so soft against his.

But that's all he was going to allow himself to do tonight. He released her and opened the door, urging her to shower and get ready for bed first, and when she emerged clean and damp and fresh, she had a light in her eyes which he suspected meant trouble. And as flattering… exciting… _arousing_ as that promise of trouble was, this was not the night to explore it.

"Rest, Juliet," he said gently when she came to stand in front of him, the scent of her shower gel wafting along with her. "We have time. We need time."

After a moment, she nodded and kissed his cheek, and when he was out of the shower himself, she was asleep… but she lay in the _middle_ of the bed, as if making sure he couldn't remain too distant from her during the night.

He carefully fit himself beside her, and she curved into his arms sleepily, murmuring his name.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Halfway home on Sunday morning, Juliet asked the question—or one of them, anyway—which had been on her mind. "What do you think Vick will decide?"

Carlton looked over at her. His eyes seemed bluer than ever, here in the car, and she wondered if he had any idea at all how striking they really were. "Ego aside, I think she probably _won't_ accept my resignation."

"Of course she won't," she said indignantly. "That's not even on the table."

He grinned. "Then you've already made up your mind what she'll decide."

"Well, not exactly. She could let you step down, and let me go with you, or she could let you step down and _think_ she won't let me go with you but she's _dead_ wrong about that, or she could have figured out a way to control Shawn so you can stay head detective."

"O'Hara," he scoffed, "there's no _controlling_ Spencer. You know that. Hell, the man turned up in the middle of our undercover operation. He can't be contained, corralled, or threatened into acting like an adult. Nothing she's tried has ever worked. Nothing any of us tried has ever worked."

"But…" She stopped. He was right. Nothing had ever gotten through to Shawn. He might behave for brief periods, but it never 'took.' Never.

"I think she'll let me step down," he went on, level. "And I think she'll either promote you to head detective or partner you with the new one, and… I think… maybe that's for the best."

Juliet turned in her seat and stared at him in horror. "What? How is that for the best?"

He sighed, and kept his eyes on the road. "It's best for _you_. It's one thing for me to make this move but you're still on the way up. You need to keep going in that direction, not backwards with me."

Juliet was appalled. "Carlton Lassiter, you told me yesterday that you didn't want another partner. How can you—"

"I _don't_ want another partner," he interrupted at once. "Even when I told Vick I did after I found out about you and Spencer, I didn't want another partner. Nobody, O'Hara, _nobody_ has ever been or could ever be a better partner for me. You're perfect for me. You're… hell, you're just perfect, period."

He was blushing again, and now she felt her own cheeks warming. "I am not. But… Carlton. I'm not giving you up. Ever. I mean it. I don't care about a career. Whatever I thought I wanted when I made detective turned into simply wanting to _be_ a detective. I want to do the best job I can and with you, I think I do. I think you've made me a good cop, if I am one, and I'm not done learning from you."

"It's just…" he trailed off.

"It's just nothing. You told Vick you wanted to get real work done. Well, so do I. You've been Shawn's target all these years but he gets in my way, too, you know. He's hindered us as much as he's helped and sometimes it seems like half our job is just trying to keep him from getting killed by way of his own recklessness. Who needs that? Let him be someone else's problem." She felt quite defiant saying it, and didn't miss Carlton's smile, which seemed to be part amusement and part pride.

"Loyal," he murmured.

"Loyal my ass. I'm practical in my own way, Carlton. I've been doing this long enough to know what's important, and what's important is having the best partner to do the best work with."

"And you choose me?"

"Yes. I do. Are you going to fight me on this?"

Slowly, he shook his head. "Nope."

More softly, she pressed on, "And are you going to fight me on the other thing?" Because what if he did? What would she do if he decided he didn't want her after all?

"The other thing?" He still wasn't looking at her, but his smile said he knew what she meant.

"The other thing. The… prospect of a… personal relationship." Which she knew now she wanted more than anything else, even more than the partnership.

"You could be on the rebound," he suggested gently.

"Am not. Oh, God, I'm not." She realized how shallow it sounded, as if Shawn hadn't meant much to her at all, but that wasn't true. It was only that right now she was riding on relief that the _stress_ of the relationship was over. "Okay, maybe I should take a little time so that everyone _else_ is sure I'm not on the rebound, but _I'm_ already sure. So is this going to be a battle?"

He didn't answer right away, and before she could stop it, her own fears rose to the forefront.

"Carlton," she persisted. "Look, I know I'm probably not what you thought you'd ever want in a woman."

"_What_?" He gave her a sharp look, eyebrows high. "Wait—"

"I'm younger than you, though I don't think twelve years is that much and I _am_ over thirty. And maybe you get tired of me talking, because I know I talk a lot, but I'm that way and besides, you're easy to talk to, though I suspect half the time you let me talk because you can't figure out how to ask me to shut up."

"O'Hara, no—"

"And I'm usually in a good mood, which probably you find very annoying, but it's not that I don't take things seriously; it's just that there has to be a brighter side to even the darkest things or we'll go crazy, you know that."

"You need to stop talking _now_, that's for sure," he tried again, but he wasn't annoyed, and she couldn't stop anyway.

"You're a much more serious person than I am. I know you hated it when I let Shawn and Gus in on investigations and maybe you thought I was going behind your back, and God, I am still _so_ sorry I kept my relationship with Shawn from you. I think I knew it was a bad idea and I knew you'd hate it and I was afraid you'd think I was a moron and then when you went to Vick for a new partner, I was sick, Carlton, I was so _sick_ that I'd screwed everything up with you, but did I tell you that? No, I was stupid and acted like some kind of sullen teenager, and if I could go back, you know I would."

"O'Hara, listen to me," he said more firmly.

But she was on fire now with her self-recriminations. "What would freak me out is if you'd really rather just think of me as a friend or a sister and maybe you actually do want a new partner, someone you can take seriously, because I know my appearance makes it hard for people to take me seriously, but Carlton, you know me better than anyone else. Unless that's the problem. I mean, I'm not saying I'm a bad person or anything, but maybe I'm not the person _you_ want. Maybe you—what are you doing?" She stopped, because he had abruptly pulled off the road into an abandoned gas station lot, and parked under a tree in the shade.

And then he was leaning over and pulling her into his arms, and kissing her hard, his breath hot and his mouth deliciously intent, and she curved her fingers into his soft hair and lost herself in the feeling of _this-is-so-_right_-ness_.

Cupping her face, he asked roughly, "Tell me _now_ that I think of you as a sister or a friend."

She opened her mouth to speak, and he kissed her again, more deeply, stoking in her a fire she knew instinctively had not only been burning all the while, but would, without a doubt, burn forever.

"Well?" he demanded, caressing her cheek with his thumb, his blue eyes ablaze with, dear Lord, _everything_.

"I think maybe you should have stopped the car sooner," she said, laughing, and Carlton gave her a crooked grin and another, lighter, kiss.

"Let's just go home and deal with Vick before anything else gets said." He settled back into his seat, running his hands through his hair, leaving it in rather charming disarray. "Or done."

"There's a lot which could be done," she suggested breathlessly, patting her hot face, hoping to cool down.

"O'Hara," he said firmly, albeit after a deep and slightly ragged breath, "first things first."

"You're right. You're right." Damn him, her gorgeous blue-eyed cranky Irishman, he was right. As he'd said last night, they had time, and maybe they needed it, too.

All the same, she wasn't _that_ patient: after they were back on the road, she pried his right hand off the steering wheel and claimed it as her own for the rest of the trip.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

When Lassiter and Juliet were called into Vick's office Monday morning, Henry Spencer was just leaving. He nodded at them both, not quite curtly, his expression impossible to read. Standard Henry, in other words.

After the door was closed, Karen sat down and said without preamble, "Although neither of _you_ informed me of this, is it true Shawn went to Waverly and nearly blew your undercover operation?"

Lassiter was surprised, and then realized Spencer must have told Henry, who would have told her. "Yes, but the explosions started right after he left, so it became irrelevant." He couldn't help but wonder if Spencer had also told Henry about witnessing the dartboard kiss, but knew that could be easily passed off as part of their undercover work. Unless he'd seen the _other_ kiss… _crap_.

Karen tilted her head quizzically. "I don't consider it irrelevant. How did he know where you were?"

Juliet was tense beside him. "He broke into my desk drawer and looked at my day planner to figure out where I'd gone. I don't know how he found us at the reunion, but I'm sure it involved some other sort of unethical and most likely illegal behavior as well."

Sighing, Karen nodded. "All right. That actually lends support to my decision." She sat back in her chair. "I don't want you to step down, Carlton. You're not only an excellent detective with a very impressive record, you're also organized and efficient and keep the entire detective squad focused and productive. If you could just keep your gun in its holster, and maybe not be _quite_ so quick to assume the worst about people, you'd be damn near perfect." She smiled faintly. "Don't let that go to your head."

He was trying to beat down the instinctive blush: while his work-related ego didn't usually need any help being puffed up (a fact he'd told a psychologist once with reasonable calm), it was still unexpectedly nice to get unsolicited praise from his superiors. "I won't," he assured her, and could almost feel Juliet's smile, though he would not look at her.

"And you, Detective O'Hara, seem to be the partner best suited for Lassiter. The differences in your personalities complement each other and while I'm sure you'd make an excellent partner for _any_ of my detectives, I have no good reason to separate you from this one as long as it's working so well."

Juliet murmured, "Thank you, Chief." Her relief was palpable.

"So that brings us to Mr. Spencer." Karen shook her head slightly. "First, let me apologize to you, Carlton, for my role in this."

He started to protest; he thought he'd made it clear no one had to fight his battles for him.

But she overrode him. "You were right to say his behavior makes the whole department look bad. By not stepping in—by letting myself believe your personality conflict was the root of the problem, and there's no mixing oil and water—I am guilty of letting an unacceptable situation get progressively worse. I allowed the working conditions for my best detective to degrade to the point that he considered quitting a viable option, and I am, quite frankly, appalled that I dropped the ball to that extent."

Lassiter was at a loss. She was saying, very sincerely, what he hoped he would say if he were in her position, but there was no idea in his head as to how to respond.

Leaning forward, elbows on the desk, Karen went on. "Now, since you _were_ prepared to either step down or quit, I'm going to assume you're willing to make at least one significant compromise instead."

"Yes," he said at once. "Name it." Nothing could be that bad after what she'd just said, unless fate _really_ had it in for him.

"When Psych is needed on a case, you'll pass it off to another set of detectives. Without question, without hesitation. No matter how big, how flashy, how career-making, you and O'Hara will pass the case off immediately and Spencer will work with that team." She looked at him steadily. "We have a lot of good detectives in the squad and there's no reason they can't get some of the glory, as well as some of the experience of working with Shawn."

He glanced at Juliet. "It's your career too, but I say yes."

"I told you, I don't want a _career_. I want to be a detective." She gave him a little smile and he felt a bit as if she'd kissed his cheek.

To Vick, he said firmly, "We accept. What else?"

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

She glanced at Juliet, who nodded as well. "All right, good. Now, I'm aware that Shawn has a tendency to show up at crime scenes before we know whether we need him, so my solution for that problem is more direct. If he hasn't been called in, he's not welcome. It will be a standing order among all crime scene personnel to treat him as any other interfering civilian if he doesn't have preauthorization to be onsite. He will be removed immediately. This goes for Guster, too."

Lassiter stared. It was Christmas. In July.

As if sensing his masked enjoyment of this, Karen allowed a hint of a grin to show. "Second offense, removal plus a fine to Psych. Third offense, suspension of their services for three months. Fourth offense, we sever our consultancy arrangement with them completely and look to other area psychics for assistance if we need them. That'll be Henry's purview."

Oh, Henry wouldn't like that, Lassiter knew, and how did one go about seeking out hyper-observant non-psychics anyway? Henry might as well just hire himself.

"Finally, there is the matter of how Spencer conducts himself during investigations, which is ultimately the reason we're having this conversation." She looked rueful. "We can set the rules on his access and who he works with, but I'm not sure anyone will ever be able to control his speech. If he had his father's self-control, maybe, but he's thirty-five so somehow I doubt we should expect him to develop that skill now."

Juliet muttered something which sounded like "damn straight," but Lassiter couldn't be sure. It might have just been that he was thinking it himself.

"So I'm going to apply the same rules regarding his access to his _mouth_. If he publicly insults you or any _other_ officer in the course of doing your jobs, he'll be removed, fined, suspended and later, er, severed, in that order. But be warned, Detective Lassiter, that you are expected to rise above the temptation to respond to anything he might say. When I ask witnesses about any verbal altercations between you, I expect fully to _never_ hear that you behaved in anything other than a completely professional manner. That means no return fire, no gloating, nothing but neutrality. _Always_. Understood?" She waited for his nod. "Obviously, whatever you say to each other in private is between the two of you, but I'd strongly advise you to always be the better man, because even in private, Carlton, your first responsibility should be to the department and its good name."

Lassiter believed that was true. "Agreed. I promise you'll never hear anything negative about my behavior toward him."

"I'm glad to hear it, because if you don't comply, it'll turn up in your performance review—for starters." She sat back again, seeming to have come to an end. "I'll be meeting with Spencer, Guster and Henry later today to lay out these new protocols. It's certainly in Shawn's best interests, for his livelihood, to comply. I'll let you know if he doesn't."

Lassiter looked at Juliet; they both looked back at Vick.

"Any questions?" she asked mildly.

"No, ma'am," he said.

"Then you're dismissed. There's plenty of work to be done and you're just the people to do it."

He and Juliet stood, and he thanked her quietly for her consideration.

Karen nodded, and when they were nearly to the door, said, "Oh, and Carlton, for what it's worth? I know you _can_ beat the crap out of him, but be sure you can make good on that promise of not leaving a mark." She was grinning.

He heard Juliet laugh a little, and thought—though he could not repress a smile—that he should perhaps only say, "Understood," and leave it at that.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Juliet stood at Carlton's desk, beaming up at him. "That went very well. I knew she wouldn't let you step down."

"Will her plan work, though?"

"It can. We just have to give it a shot."

His expression was bemused as he studied her. "You make it easy to believe in miracles."

"Are you talking professionally or personally?"

Carlton turned slightly to lean on the edge of the desk, and just happened to brush his hand against hers. "Both."

She managed to brush his back nearly as subtly. "But you're right to wonder. There's no telling what Shawn will do."

Quietly, he asked, "Have you heard from him since Saturday?"

"He's called," she admitted. "But… I'm done, Carlton. I'm sorry, and I'm not proud of hurting him. I wish I'd been able to end it without anger and I know things could be really awkward now. But it's over. Even if you…" She hesitated. "Even if I had no hope with you, I'd still be out of that relationship. If not now then eventually."

His tell-tale blush was back, but he spoke to the carpet. "You can have every hope you want with me, Juliet."

She felt giddy. "Including getting you to use my first name."

Carlton laughed a little. "Give me time."

"All that you want, Lassiter. All that you need."

He looked full at her, eyes alight. "So I was thinking I might ask you to dinner now and again, over the next few weeks. Maybe spend some weekend hours with you. Try this discreet dating thing while we wait for the fallout of Vick's decision. And incidentally to show a little compassion for the guy, because contrary to popular belief, I _am_ capable of that where he's concerned."

Juliet considered this carefully. "That sounds very logical and sensible. Taking our time, making it clear neither of us is rushing into anything, maintaining privacy and respecting Shawn's feelings. Of course I agree." She moved as close as she dared, to speak very softly. "I just have one question."

Carlton, who had taken a sharp breath at her approach—and whose eyes now betrayed some desire—managed to inquire as to her question in a reasonably steady manner.

"What are you going to do if I drive to your place tonight, park in the back, and knock on your door wearing only a trench coat?"

He swallowed, and that jaw muscle was twitching again. "I… uh… I'd invite you inside to… uh… help you warm up."

"That's nice." She smiled with deliberate sweetness and started to leave.

"O'Hara," he said more briskly, stopping her. "That was a hypothetical question, right?"

Juliet grinned. "What do you think?"

His blush was immediate and deep. "I… um… just… drive carefully, okay?"

It was hard not to giggle all the way back to her desk, where she immediately texted him that she was a safe driver and she'd be there at eight.

When he was composed enough to text her back, his answer was, "Seven."

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**T H E**

**E N D**

_[Shout-out to '__**kateandharvey**__' for the class reunion subplot: this probably wasn't _exactly_ what you had in mind, but it's how my warped mind worked!]_


End file.
